


Broken

by LadyWynne



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark, F/M, Future Fic, Trigger warning- suicide, sansan, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 21:52:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12662151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyWynne/pseuds/LadyWynne
Summary: The battle between the living and dead rages at Winterfell, but it is not going well.  Sansa should have left when she had the chance.  Sandor reaches her too late, but he won't let her be turned.





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

> I took some liberties with the White Walker's powers to fit the story. It is dark, but if you can't handle the ending then read the epilogue!

Sandor rushed to her side and knelt beside her on the cold stone floor.  “Sansa? Sansa!” Was that his voice breaking, or mayhaps his heart? It was surely being torn in two.  His little bird lay before him, shattered and bloody.  Her fiery hair was strewn around her, but matted and sticky, her hand stretched out toward him beseechingly.  No part of her stirred, and he knew the truth immediately.  His sweet Sansa, his heart, the only true goodness he had known as a man grown.  Tears sprang to his eyes and his face contorted into the image of anguish, a strangled sort of scream escaped him, then his shoulders and head slumped as the tears fell.

Sandor didn’t know how long he mourned in the walled and covered walkway, with the bodies of comrades all around.  It couldn’t have been long.  Outside, the battle raged on, and soon he heard clashes and grunts from below.  Now the sounds were on the stairs leading to him. Sandor steeled himself and stood.  Nothing foul could be allowed to touch her.  He turned, planting his feet in front of her still form, gripping his longsword in one hand and a dirk in the other.  A small band of wights came into view.  They came for him.  Sandor fought, slashing and snarling.  It was odd not to feel the satisfying spray of warm blood as he cut them to pieces.  Soon, the hall was clear, but he knew it wouldn’t stay that way. 

Sandor gave the area a quick sweep of his eyes then turned back to her, sheathing his weapons.  His heart thumping in his chest he knelt and gathered her into his arms.  He was barely holding it together.  He still felt wet tears on the side of his face that was whole.  Sandor looked at her as he stood; taking in her closed lashes, her lips, her nose.  Then he moved swiftly to shelter her.  He chose the closest tower, at the end of the passage.  It must have been where her honor guard had been heading when they were overran.  He bounded up the tall tower stairs, which circled around the walls, cradling her as he did. 

In the topmost room, Sandor laid his love gently down on a bed he found there.  He couldn’t look at her again at that moment.  Instead, he bolted the door and went to the window.  What he saw below was horrific.  The battle for Winterfell was lost.  Not even the dragons had been able to prevent it.  The Night King’s forces were sweeping through the castle as Sandor watched, killing any they saw.  When his eyes turned to the base of his own tower, his gut clenched.  Wights swarmed the yard and battlements directly below.  His first thought, a reflex, was of Sansa’s safety.  The realization that hit him then was a spear through the heart.  He staggered a small step at the pain of his grief. 

Further away, over the walls, he watched White Walkers advance.  The evil bastards gestured with their cold hands as they came, and each time they did the freshly fallen dead stirred.  Sandor’s breath hitched.  _NO!  Damn them._ He would not allow it.  Sansa would have peace.  He would see to it.  His little bird would fly free from this world, not be bound to undead torment.

Sandor’s mind whirled.  He had no dragon glass, no Valyrian steel, not even armor. He'd run for Sansa so unthinkingly that he had brought nothing but what he carried with him.  Scanning the room, his eyes fell on the torch in a bracket on the wall.  There was flint for the fireplace.  It could work.  Turning at last toward Sansa again, he didn’t know if he could do it.  She was so lovely, but the thought of her deep blue eyes freezing into the unnatural ice-blue of a wight’s was too much.  He choked out a sob. He wouldn’t let that happen. 

Moving to her side, Sandor knelt again and took her hand.  “I won’t let them have you, Little Bird,” he rasped, “I swear it.” Tears ran in twin rivulets unheeded down his cheeks.  Only she could bring out such emotion in him.  Not even the hate he harbored for his brother could rival what he felt for her.  Had she been able, she would have brushed his pain away, heedless of his burns.  He could almost hear her voice, _Save yourself, Sandor, my love_.  He shook it away.  Sandor held no illusions.  He was a fierce warrior, but no one could battle their way through the throng below.  And he could not allow himself to be turned.   

 _Why must it end in fire?_   _Doesn’t matter. Fuck the fire._   He’d do it for her, and take at least some of the buggers with him. Mayhaps, if her beliefs were true, they would be together again.  The decision was made. He kissed her hand gently, allowing himself this one last boon, then wiped his own cheeks clean and set his jaw.  Knowing time was short, Sandor rose. He placed Sansa and the straw mattress on the floor at the far end of the large room.  Then he kicked the rushes into place around her and into a thick line ending in a sort of wide grass bank a short way in front of the door.  He added the firewood and kindling by the hearth as well as the bedding and anything else he could find.  It was all dry as dust.  This room hadn’t seen use in seasons.  It made a large enough pyre, and the curtains would catch as well.

Finally, Sandor lit the torch and waited, sword in his other hand. He was surprised to find himself trembling.  That had never happened before.  But now he grieved, and although he didn’t fear his end, the hell that would precede it filled him with dread.  He forced himself to breathe, in and out.  He couldn’t fail.  Sansa’s face swam before him, happy, as only he had seen it.  They’d had so little time together, in the midst of war and terror.

Sandor found himself praying, to any who would hear.   _I’ve never asked for anything.  I ask now.  Please, PLEASE don’t let those monsters awaken her.  Do with me as you will, but keep her in peace and happiness._

The first heavy **thump** sounded on the door.  Sandor stood his ground, widening his stance.  Only a few more hard hits, and suddenly, they were through.  Quick as blinking, Sandor carved through the first wight’s neck, severing its head.  He torched the second, backing it toward the door again.  Several behind it caught fire as well and he advanced onto the small landing at the top of the stair.  He brought his sword to bear, wielding it more like an axe, hacking and cutting.  They just kept coming, showing no interest in anything but him.  It went on for several minutes until one of their clumsy stabs found him.  He went down to one knee, bleeding from the thigh.  He was furious.  They tore at him, clawing.  They scratched at his legs, his arms, even clung to his back reaching for his eyes.  Sandor fell forward under their weight.  As he struggled near the edge of the landing, Sandor looked down the tower stair.  His grey eyes met unyielding blue.   The White Walker started up the steps, the crowd of wights parting as he passed.  No more time. With a roar, Sandor found his hands and knees, still clutching his weapons.  He used the torch again, swinging up and around suddenly and clearing the way. Wights flew through the air, burning, knocked aside as he spun.  He sprang to his feet and made for the door.  Wights were after him again almost instantly. 

As Sandor reentered the tower room he dropped the torch to the pile of rushes and wood by the door, never stopping.  It caught quickly and the wights in front were burning.  Sandor, dropping his longsword as well and drawing his dirk, continued towards Sansa at the opposite wall.  He had only seconds before the whole room was ablaze.  Sandor lowered himself onto the straw mattress, back against the wall.  He raised Sansa’s head into his lap.  No longer sparing a glance at the rest of the room, but feeling the heat build around him, Sandor looked at his little bird, love and longing shining in his eyes.  Then, without hesitation, his eyes never leaving her beautiful face, he plunged his dirk straight into his broken heart.

 

 

Epilogue

He was surrounded by the purest white.  It was like snow, but he wasn’t cold.  It felt like he was suspended in still, warm water.  A light appeared, just a pinprick at first, but it grew.  It grew and grew until it enveloped him, and suddenly he was _through_.

\----

Sandor Clegane stood on solid ground. He was in a beautiful golden plain.  A breeze could be seen swaying the yellow grass as it passed.  Warm sun shone down.  The whole place seemed to glow, and in the distance stood a thatched cottage, with dogs romping outside. 

As he watched shapes seemed to materialize, hazy at first, coming toward him.  There was a large black figure and three more slender forms.  He knew the large shape first.  “Stranger.” His voice surprised him, still deep, but free of any hint of a rasp.  He gave the horse a small smile, pleased to see his old friend, who whickered a greeting.

Next, a small shape came running towards him.  She was laughing and smiling, with her arms open wide. 

“Sandor!” she cried. 

“Ely?”  He knelt in the grass to meet her, feeling no twinge in his leg.

The girl crashed into him.  Arms encircling his neck and kissing his entirely unburnt cheek.  “Welcome brother! Oh, I am so glad to see you.”  He hugged his precious sister fiercely.

“I’ve missed you Elynor,” he told her. When he finally pulled away he drank her in, dark hair and grey eyes, so like his own, but with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and a smile on her face.  She took his hand and held it as he stood. “Look who else has come to greet you, brother.”

A woman who seemed something out of a dream stepped forward.  She had dark auburn hair and the warmest face he’d ever seen.  She reached out to him. 

“Mother?”

“Yes, my sweet boy.”  He went to her and she was holding him.  He was overcome.  She whispered, “I have always been with you, love.  You have been so brave, and I am so very proud of you.” She released him slowly and stepped back.

Finally, the last figure approached.  Even before she became clear there shone a crown of fiery glory around her head.  Sansa! He stared, and this time he ran to her.  He lifted her off her feet and laughed, actually _laughed_ , as he spun her.  She laughed as well, and when he set her on the ground he kissed her deeply.  Kissed her with all the passion and love that had always been in his heart.  “Little Bird, you’re here.”

“Thanks to you.”

Sandor looked around at the women who loved him, and he was cherished at last.  He was home, and joy such as he had never felt filled him to overflowing.  And he knew without being told; their time, their happiness, would never end, but would stretch on, eternal.

 

 


End file.
